


Death Walks With Her

by lustfulpasiphae (miraphora)



Series: Hawk of the Marches [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Quest: In Your Heart Shall Burn, Gen, Haven (Dragon Age), The Fade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 04:45:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5443775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraphora/pseuds/lustfulpasiphae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has faced Death before. The little deaths--of accident, of plans gone awry, of a betrayal. This Death…this Death will be unforgiving. It is possible she will not even go into the Fade at all--she has learned fearful things in her months with the Inquisition, about magic, and the Veil, about the lengths to which madmen will go. She has told herself, in the quiet moments, when the stark reality of her situation is unavoidable, when it cannot be forestalled with a quip or a wry demurral, that she is ready.</p><p>Je suis prest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death Walks With Her

She turns her head to escape the malevolent gaze of Corypheus, gold eyes stinging from the smoke and teeth buzzing from the proximity of the Archdemon. The…anchor--such an odd word for such a thing, and yet fitting--it drags her down, it is sending fire through her veins, it will be the death of her, one way or another.

A prayer is tripping and stumbling through her heart--she, the willful agnostic, the unwilling Herald, moved to Grace--frantic for Sera, for Solas and Cassandra, for the people of Haven who, at this moment, she prays ardently, are being led through Roderick’s fateful pathway to safety with Cullen, grimly determined to make the most of her sacrifice, at their head. 

She has faced Death before. The little deaths--of accident, of plans gone awry, of a betrayal. These deaths she faced for many years with Elyse by her side, leading their merry bandits, their Fools, in raids and gambits that would have made Sera chortle. This Death…this Death will be unforgiving. It is possible she will not even go into the Fade at all--she has learned fearful things in her months with the Inquisition, about magic, and the Veil, about the lengths to which madmen will go. She has told herself, in the quiet moments, when the stark reality of her situation is unavoidable, when it cannot be forestalled with a quip or a wry demurral, that she is ready.

 _– Je suis prest –_ It is her thought, but her mother’s voice she hears, Giselle with her honey curls, and sharp yellow eyes gentled for her daughter.  _It is the motto of your grandmere’s house, my little hawk, you must remember it, for your daughter._  A line from a text in Josephine’s office unfurls in her mind--“ _the descendants of Vivial, daughter of Andraste…produce only daughters…_ ”

All of these thoughts, tangled with the Chant, winding sinuously through her mind like mist, in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

In the end it does not matter if she is ready or not. Her heart rises in her throat as Cullen’s signal climbs into the sky--the clear, unblemished sky--

/  _You did that, Tawny, you did, they are safe_  /

A wracking laugh tears from her throat and she feels a mad smile like a gash across her lips. Her eyes are yellow as a Marchland Hawk’s as she looks once more at Corypheus’ ravaged face.

“You are a fool--You--expect me to fight--but that is not why I kept you talking--enjoy your victory-- _here_  is your prize!”

There is a moment of blank incomprehension on the abomination’s face--it has forgotten how to be human, if it ever was, and her continued defiance, her exultation, it does not understand.

Mira whirls, striking out at the winch of the trebuchet with the broken sword--the Archdemon and Corypheus both gaze up, up into the mountains at the rumble of the avalanche.

Mira is already sprinting, praying the palisades will dampen the blow of the snow’s fury enough--enough--

–  _Maker guide me_  –

A thunderous wave crests above her, the force driving before it flinging her into the air and smashing her down to the ground, crashing into wood, splinters flying--

She knows no more.

* * *

 

When she wakes, she is not entirely sure that she hasn’t died and passed beyond the Veil. She shifts, making to sit up--and gasps, almost chokes, at the stab of pain in her chest.

“Maker’s…fucking…mercy,” she hisses breathlessly, trying not to move again until she’s taken stock of the rest of her body. 

Definitely alive. “Solas never mentioned broken ribs in the Fade, that’s for fucking sure.”

Her voice is hoarse, and her eyes are full of grit. The next time Mira moves it is very gingerly, pushing slowly, hissing and cursing virulently, to her feet, where she sways.

It’s cold as Sylaise’s root cellar, wherever she is, and her fighting leathers are tight with it. She tries to crane her head back to look above her, and her ribs stab again, her vision swims, and she loses her breath for a moment or three.

“Not--happening. Got--it.”

She scarcely has the breath to spare for this pointless speech, but the cavern around her is empty, the emptiness of long abandonment, and…she is desperately alone. The sound of her voice, any voice, is a comfort.

Her fingers feel carefully around her belt, coming away damp with the scent of elfroot, the grittiness of broken glass. It would have been too much to ask for a potion to help with her breathing.

There’s nothing for it, and she’s stalling--she knows she is. But the tunnel stretches away before her, and…

“ _Je_ … _suis_ … _prest_ ,” she grits out as she takes her first step, cheeks tight in a grimace. “Not like…Cullen…is going to rescue--” a bitten off grunt cuts her commentary short.

She walks.

* * *

 

Sometimes she finds herself leaning against the wall of the tunnel without a memory of stopping. Her head has started buzzing, somewhere between the frequency of an open rift and a nearby shard, and there is a rusty smear on her gloves from touching the back of her head. She is having trouble drawing a full breath, she who centers herself to the energy of the arrow by breathing, and she is fairly certain that she is going to die in this tunnel.

She has started to doubt, again, that she is even alive at all.

A muted sound, like pursed lips blowing across the tops of empty wine bottles, begins to crowd out the buzz in her head. The next time she comes-to against the wall she peers ahead, blinking away the frost on her lashes, to see a blurry white haze ahead and an archway of darkness--the end to the tunnel?

Adrenaline zings through her veins and she staggers forward with renewed hope.

When the ghouls appear, she screams in fury, feeling something wrench in her chest, burning down her left arm. The anchor flares and--something--explodes--outward from her.

The ghouls dissipate.

Mira groans weakly, uncertain if they were even there but for the reeking effluvium caking her boots as she draggingly shuffles forward. 

The mouth of the tunnel yawns before her. A fierce wind is howling. She is staring into a sheer white Void.

Despair sinks its claws into her, accompanying the stabbing pain of her ribs and the throb of her head. There is nothing in that howling wasteland for her but death. Everything is death.

The Chant has left her. She only ever knew bits and pieces, a canticle or three, Elyse’s fault really, and there is no fervor to her faith to combat the sinking of her soul. Behind her is a slow death, before her--

–  _Maybe…you will find a way_  – 

Cullen’s voice, what already seems a lifetime ago, in the Chantry. It is a beautiful voice, but…the voice of a Commander to his--best--soldier. It does not inspire her, here.

Moments pass as she wavers on her feet, the sting of the blizzard before her. Her mind is perfectly blank with exhaustion and pain, empty of prayer, empty of hope, empty of thought.

/  _The Light shall lead her safely  
Through the paths of this world, and into the next _ /

The Chant begins nearly below the threshold of hearing. It is--the promise of sound, nothing more. Mira tilts her head weakly, eyes half-lidded, one hand braced on the wall of the tunnel.

/  _For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water_  /

A warmth begins to grow against Mira’s breastbone, gentle, barely noticeable, but--she takes a breath and for a moment it does not hurt. She sees--light? Flickering, weak--nearly lost in the blinding white of the blizzard.

One foot pushes forward, edging into the storm. Without a thought, the rest of her follows.

/  _As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,  
She should see fire and go towards Light_  /

Her feet move, mindless and by rote. Step forward, lean, push, pull against the sucking snow, another step, repeat. She is just one continuous shudder from her head to the toes she can no longer feel, but the agony of her ribs is strangely muted. 

She is--still--moving--when the blackness sweeps through her mind.

* * *

 

/  _The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,_  
_And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker_  
 _Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword_  /

When Mira wakes this time, she knows that she is dead.

There is a campfire, crackling and warm, before her. She is--seated on a log? Upright. Her ribs are barely a twinge. There is a muffled hum all around her--the blizzard, but…not. It is as though a barrier has formed around her, suppressing everything else. For the moment, there is only this campfire.

The campfire--and Death.

Mira says her name on a breath: “Elyse.”

The woman turns her head--Mira is seized with terror that the face she sees will be ravaged like Leliana’s in the hellhole that was Redcliffe-of-the-future--but no. The woman is petite, almost dainty, skin like dark coastal honey, a heart-shaped face and lips curved like Andruil’s bow, a strong Rivaini nose and snapping cinnamon eyes. Thick bronze hair falls forward over her slender shoulder, spangled in the firelight. There is a tiny beauty mark next to her nose, below her left eye–too misplaced to be an affectation. Her face is not…pretty. It is arresting.

One winging brow quirks up sharply, and the corner of the bowed mouth twists. Mira had not noticed that she was humming until she stops.

“You look like Maferath’s balls after Andraste’s mabari got ahold of them, Tawny.” The husky voice is sardonic.

Mira shudders--a phantom chill, certainly, with the fire before her. “E--lyse. I--”

“Don’t you even dare.” The dark eyes snap and the dainty lips compress. “Of all the blighted stupid things you could do right now, apologies for the follies of the past are so high on my list of ‘don’t even’s that I could singe you for the thought!”

Mira is taken aback, and coughs, feeling a phantom twinge in her chest. It’s--been so long. Since she has heard this voice. This beloved voice. And to have it snarling at her with this--this typical  _fucking_  temper--

A stunning grin breaks across her face, heat washing across her cheeks and the back of her neck. Her own temperament has always been that of a mule, and she can’t let it go that easily, as much as the sheer joy of this moment is burning through her like a wildfire. “But the Circle--”

“If you think for one moment that I wanted you anywhere near Rivain when that blighted Order of Annulment went up, you are dumber than that Templar you’ve been mooning over. I swear to the Maker, Tawny. Why do you think I sent you away?” Elyse tucks an errant strand of hair behind a small, neat ear, showing the tattoos that trace the whorls and lobe. She tilts her head and smiles mischievously. “Your turn to be mad now.”

Mira shakes her head wordlessly, feeling like a child. “You left me.”

Elyse’s smile gentles, eyes softening to a rich, dark cinnamon. “I had a journey to make that you could not accompany me on.” 

Mira frowns, piecing together what her friend does not say--will not say. “You meant to…to make Anders’ choice.”

The dark eyes become distant for a moment. “Never that--but…I meant to do something. I don’t know, Tawny. There was a choice--there’s always a choice. I did not choose as I expected, when I left for Rivain.”

 _Always a choice._ The words echo.

Elyse’s eyes snap back into a smirk, dismissing the past. “I sent the Fools to you. You were supposed to keep them.”

“It--wasn’t the same. After.” Mira swallows thickly and wonders where her own grin has disappeared to.

_A choice._

“When I left for the Conclave--I thought I could see through to some solution, for the mages--when I left…I let them go. Told them to head for Par Vollen. I’m--I’m glad I did, now. They would have died.” Mira stares into the fire for a moment, but her eyes stray back to Elyse’s slight form. She is committing this to memory. The pain in her chest is beginning to creep back, slowly, slowly, but inexorably. 

She reaches up, touches her fingers to the lump of the pendant around her neck. Elyse watches her hand. Their eyes meet, hold. 

“I still--”

“I know.” Elyse’s lashes flicker down for a moment. Her small hands are clasped in her lap, colorful bangles and bracelets decorating her wrists.

The silence settles, and Mira tries to take comfort in it, in the warmth of the fire. But the throbbing is beginning at the base of her skull again.

“You said…”

Elyse hums softly, the first few bars of a familiar hymnal. Mira’s mind begins to feel foggy, and her attention wanders for a moment, before it grudgingly snaps back. Suddenly, Elyse is standing in front of her, only a little taller than she is, sitting. She never sees her move.

“A choice. You said there was a _choice_.” She is whispering by the end of it, pleading, and there is the burning of tears along her lower lids.

Elyse sighs. Bracelets and bangles, a riot of color, bloodstone and vitriol, silverite and aurum, onyx and bone, clatter and clank as she lifts her hands to cradle Mira’s face tenderly. 

“Tawny--Mira--my sweet friend.” She breathes each name like a little song, a benediction, each one accompanied by a kiss--to her brow, to each of her eyelids. “Don’t you hear it? The choice sings within you.” 

The howling of the storm is beginning to overpower the crackle of the campfire, which--is--dimming. Flickering. Dying.

“I’m afraid.” Mira’s voice is tight, choked. Her heart hurts, her chest is bursting with pain. “I’m so afraid,” a smaller whisper, scratchy, barely audible.

Slender arms slide around her, cradling her head to a small, sturdy shoulder. “I know. I’m sorry I can’t be there at your side.” 

The irony of this: apologies from a ghost for abandonment, where Mira had sought to assuage her own guilt. The Maker must surely weep at their folly.

The arms around her tighten, once, a squeeze for love and luck. “It’s time,” Elyse whispers.

Mira nods against her shoulder, hot tears leaking from her eyes, her throat burning, the pain--sweet merciful Andraste, the pain in her chest!--preventing her from speaking for a moment. But. “Will--will you walk with me?”

Elyse pulls away, small dark hand lacing fingers with hers, brown eyes warm and dark. “For as long as I can.”

There is suddenly snow--everywhere. Howling wind. Chaos. And Maker! The cold will kill her before she can take another step!

But there is a warmth against her chest, and her feet are moving, without her bidding them, one step, then another, her chest is aching, her head throbbing. And at her side, Death walks and peace abides.

* * *

 

When they find her on the edges of the camp, she is on her knees in the snow, nearly frozen through. Cullen, with startling urgency, sinks down beside her, anchoring his arms around her and lifting her up, cradling her against his chest, a clear white void of purpose in his mind.

It is Cassandra who sees the fading glow on her chest, as the Herald’s hand falls limply. Cassandra who sees, and says nothing, but feels in her heart a fierce rapture of faith--

The phantom glow of a long-death phylactery, cracked and empty.

**Author's Note:**

> This vignette is actually the only reason Mira Trevelyan exists. I write more about this in my notes on tumblr.
> 
> Find me on twitter and tumblr @lustfulpasiphae


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